with a sense of garlic & a little something-something
i am the well-heeled monarch of tin montage
watch this spot for future monologues
as i dance like an elephant in my pajamas
all shotgun sapphires & cobalt crooning
damned to the cough of dungeons
do you see what i mean when i speak of freckles & nerves?
it must be tuesday
it must be belgium
it must be a bottled-up plunge into dream
when i pulled my teeth
& did my little dance
so free…so free…so free…
no finals, no obviouslies, no stick to the stack of sound
get it? do you not get it?
okay, here it comes–
no more paint for the punt
& all just a snip-snip-snip to the head
cos the puppet will keep on going & going
until the clocks run down
& that, my friends, is all she wrote!